


heartbreak, ya know, drives a big black car

by gayforroxane



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: Aged Up, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, I like that that's a tag, M/M, coffeeshop au/college au/older eddie, dad! Eddie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-07 15:01:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14083506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayforroxane/pseuds/gayforroxane
Summary: sure, i used to be a regular, but i haven't been to this coffeeshop in like [five] years, how do you remember my order?('cause he was in love with you')eddie owns richie's favourite cafe in New York, and they haven't seen each other in five years. lots has changed in those years - eddie is divorced, his kids are grown up, and he's kind of losing it, just a bit, but lots hasn't (for example, he's still in love with richie. not that richie fucking knows that)





	1. you were a phonograph, i was a kid

**Author's Note:**

> title and chapter titles from Gregary Alan Isakov's Big Black Car, which is beautiful just give it a listen i love it

Richie Tozier went to the same cafe everyday for fourteen semesters and seven summers. It was on the corner of two streets he could never remember the name of and around no recognizable landmarks. It was quiet and small, scuffed hardwood floors and a wall of muntins windows, a wooden counter at the far end, and the best mochas in New York. Richie went every morning at 7:10, two hours before his first class, and if he was feeling productive, he would sit with his headphones in, on the bean bag at the small brown table and the outlet in the floor, if he wasn't, he'd settle at the bar. Monday through Friday, he'd tease and laugh with the slight boy with the brown hair and the brown eyes, watching the way his nose scrunched every time Richie made a bad joke. Saturdays and Sundays, it was the red-headed girl with the gorgeous, hand-sewn clothes, and the tall boy with the bright eyes, laughing behind his glasses, his hair pulled back in a ponytail.

When Richie went at night, after his last class on Thursdays, there were two boys, one tall and broad-shouldered, with a white smile and a huge laugh, and a slender boy, all bird-boned with curls upon curls.

But it was the boy who worked Monday to Friday mornings who Richie remembered the best.

He was tiny and strong. He owned at least three pairs of overalls - white, dark denim, light denim - and an unending number of pastel-coloured sweaters and chucks. He snapped at Richie, pushed him and argued with him, flipped him off and yelled at him, called him a miscreant and an asshole. But the longer they knew each other, the more the words transformed from genuine annoyance to synonyms for words they didn't use for each other - honey, sweetheart, baby - even though they wanted to. Or, Richie wanted to.

Eddie was married. Proper married, married with a capital 'm.'

Married with a thin silver band on his right-hand ring finger, identical to the boy with the tripping mouth and the ponytail, and gentle words over the phone on breaks. Married with two kids - little girls that they'd adopted during Richie's second semester of his first year and then the first semester of his fourth. Their names were Valerie and Rose, and Eddie loved them - his face cracked when he talked about them. They were a gorgeously sweet couple, too, teasing and genuine, playful, with communicative intuition that only came from years of loving each other.

It'd taken him a few weeks to realize he was married, because he looked Richie's age - fresh-outta-high-school eighteen - not married-with-children-and-meal-planning twenty-nine.

Somewhere between his bachelor degree in botany and his Masters degree in botany and his PhD in botany, he fell in love with a boy he saw for two hours, five days a week. A boy who was married, with two children, who was eleven years older than Richie. 

When he got a job at McGill University, in Montreal, tenure for teaching microbiology and plants and all the things he loved, he didn't tell Eddie or Bill or Beverly or Mike, not even Stan, who had become his best friend. 

Five years later, he's standing outside Cuppa, Eddie's cafe that his husband worked on weekends. He'd been twenty-six when he graduated magna cum laude from Columbia, twenty-six when he accepted his position at McGill and left without looking back. He's thirty-one. Eddie - though he's pretending that he hasn't thought about Eddie - is forty-two. Valerie and Rose are eleven and eight. Bill is forty-five. 

Richie is pretending that he's a very different person than he was five years ago, but he still talks too much and too loudly, though he's loved by his students. He's prompt and creative and Dr. Tozier's classes are the best, because being forced to write a play about the organic chemistry of internal respiration and photosynthesis of plants is infinitely better than writing papers. He still loves mochas and he still drinks strawberry ciders on Friday afternoons. He's been on a handful of dates, most of them bad. 

Richie Tozier hasn't changed in five years, and neither has Cuppa. It's on the same street, and he had to walk from the Columbia campus because he doesn't know the address to ask a cabbie to get him there. It's still sandwiched between an Indian grocer and a decrepit Denny's. The windows are still covered in equations and sayings, the fragments of homework and study groups, written in dry-erase marker on the inside, blackboards for students. The door, when Richie opens it, still creaks and drags on the floor. There's still a raised floorboard he tripped on twenty times in two weeks until it became a habit to side-step it. There's still photography in little white frames on the soft moss-green walls, pictures of birds and forests and streams. There's still artwork between the photography, watercolours and ink drawings of people - Eddie and Valerie and Rose, Mike and Beverly, Stan and Ben, one of Richie, long-limbed and gap-toothed and twenty-three - and flowers - roses and sweetpeas and hyacinths, sunflowers and daisies.

And Eddie is still behind the counter.

At first, he looks the same. He's wearing a soft grey/green sweater, a little darker than the walls, and a pair of tight, ripped white jeans. He leans over the counter, drapes his arm around a little girl's shoulder, and his foot comes up to rest on the rung of her stool, and he still wears sunflower yellow chucks.

But his hair is longer. The dark brown hair curls over his ears and at the nape of his neck. When he throws his head back and laughs, there is grey at his temples. The earrings are new, too, big wooden gauges, an inch across. He ruffles the little girl's hair and presses a kiss to her forehead, and there are big wood and silver rings up and down his fingers. Pushing his sleeves up his forearms, Richie meets five years worth of new tattoos, flowers and plants and shapes in the same style as the watercolours on the walls. There's a daisy behind his left hair, curling up from his collarbone.

Eddie straightens and pulls at the hem of his sweater, still smiling.

And then he turns.

And he sees Richie.

For a moment, he doesn't move, just staring, his mouth fishbowling open and closed. Richie wonders what he sees. He's thinner than he used to be - he ate everything he could for his student years, and didn't do anything to get rid of the weight in his thighs and hips - and his hair is longer and curlier, piled on top of his head in a bun. He's actually less put together. Teaching for years is an unforgiving experience. He never would have worn the cardigan and button-up he's wearing now five years ago, or the navy blue slacks and the black chucks.

He wonders what Eddie sees, what he notices.

"Richie," Eddie says, and a grin breaks out on his face. "Sweetie--" Eddie leans against the bar and smiles when Bill turns to him "-- Could you make a Great Divide with extra whip and honey?"

Richie blinks. "You remember my order?"

Laughing, Eddie says, "Rich, you came here everyday for eight years."

"Yeah, but--"

"I'm good at my job, dipshit, you think I'd just forget about you?"

 _Yes_ , Richie thinks, _that's exactly what I thought._

"Daddy," the girl says, "You owe Rosie fifty cents."

"You can't collect at the cafe, Val, you know thuh-that," Bill says, and puts a huge mug on the counter, pushing it toward Richie. There's a soft smile on his face, like he missed him. His hair is shorter now, close-cropped on the sides and longer on top, wavy. He looks good - sturdier than he used to be, broad shoulders and a slight waist, big hands - and the greying hair suits him. A wedding band swings as he leans forward, caught on a silver chain around his neck. Richie glances at Eddie. He's wearing one, too.

He frowns.

Bill is wearing a wedding ring, on his left ring finger, a simple rose-gold band with a black inlay. Eddie isn't.

"Where you been, Rich?"

"Uh," Richie says, and settles hesitantly into a stool, turning the mug to face him. "Just, uh, teaching. At McGill."

"In Montreal?" Eddie asks, and picks up a little girl - younger than Rose should be - swinging her onto his hip. She's bright-eyed, with red hair and porcelain skin.

"Holy fuck, is that Bevvie's kid?"

"No, the redheaded white kid definitely belongs to Mike." Eddie rolls his eyes. The little girl blinks at Richie, but doesn't say anything.

"Hey, maybe Hanlon caught himself a nice white boy or something. Also, Mike's the cutest of all of us, and you know it."

Bill laughs. "He did catch a cute white boy, but they don't have kids yet."

"I don't think Stan could handle kids, to be honest," Eddie adds.

"Wait, wait," Richie says, and waves his hands so emphatically he almost knocks his mocha off the bar, "Mike and Stan?"

"Uncle Mike and Uncle Stan have been married for four years," Valerie says, turning in her chair to fix Richie with big brown eyes. She crosses her arms and narrows her eyes, and the look is so Eddie that Richie hurts a little bit.

He clucks his tongue. "Were you at the wedding?" He asks, and he lilts his voice the way he would an adult. She relaxes immediately.

"Yeah. I was the flower girl." She shrugs. "I don't remember it that well but Papa says I looked good, so."

"Damn right you did, sweetpea," Richie says, and winks at her. "Do you remember me?"

"A little. Mostly from the paintings that Papa did of you - you're all over." She tilts her head, taps her fingers against the counter. "You're older, though. Thinner. You look..." She glances at Bill and frowns. _"Il a l'aire extenué, papa, comment dit-ont en Anglais_?"

"Haggard, _chou_."

Valerie turns back to Richie and leans forward a little, her eyes on his hands and then up to his face. "You look haggard. Like you don't sleep or eat enough."

"I eat plenty!" Richie says. It feels like a conversation he used to have with Eddie at least once a week during his PhD, because eating was expensive and secondary to writing his thesis.

Crossing her arms, Valerie turns up her nose and says, "Balanced meals contribute to decreased stress levels, better sleep, increased energy and better aging."

Richie blinks. "What the fuck, kid, how smart are you?"

Her smile goes a little smug. "I'm eleven and in ninth grade."

"You're three grades ahead?"

She shrugs again. "Dad says I absorbed Uncle Stan's brains by osmosis."

"Or Richie's," Bill says. The espresso machine clunks, and Bill continues. "Speaking of geniuses, how's tuh-teaching?"

"Well, if I have one more student send me an email the day before their final paper is due telling me that they'd like a two-week extension, I'm gonna commit my second homicide."

"What was your first homicide?" Valerie asks, absently, solving a complicated-looking polynomial.

"Eddie's mom." Richie glances at Eddie, waggles his eyebrows. "Got her with the little death."

Bill snorts.

"She died three years ago, Rich." Eddie's voice is so so soft Richie flinches, eyes going wide.

"Oh, my God, Eds I'm so--"

A loud, ugly snort bursts out of Eddie's mouth and he raises his hand to clap his palm over his mouth, giggling into his palm, leaning on Valerie as he laughs.

Richie sputters and smiles. "You piece of shit! I can't believe you got me with that."

"You're tuh-too easy, Tozier," Bill says, reaching across the bar to ruffle Richie's hair. "Always had a soft spot for Eddie, huh?"

He laughs, a quiet, self-conscious thing he doesn't to acknowledge and tugs on the curls at the base of his neck, feeling a flush bloom in spots on his cheeks. Gaze fixed on the mocha in front of him, he ignores the prickle of Bill's eyes on his face.

"Eddie!" A voice floats down the stairs in the far corner of the room, from the apartment upstairs. "Get your ass up here, your numbers are making Stan shit bricks!"

Rolling his eyes, he sets the youngest girl onto the counter, booping her nose and pressing a kiss to her cheek.

"Eddie!"

"Jesus fuck, Bevvie, I'm coming!" Eddie shouts and bounds up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

Bill turns to Richie right away, raises an eyebrow and watches him quietly. Richie sighs, curls into himself a little bit.

There's the twang of a zipper, and Valerie quietly slides her textbook and notebooks into her bag. She grabs the other girl, lifting her easily off the counter.

"C'mon, Millie, let's go see what Rosie's doing," she says, and leads her towards the backdoor. Millie looks over her shoulder and waves at Richie, who waves back, a little lost at Valerie's intuition.

The backdoor clicks closed.

The floor creaks as Bill shifts his weight and says, "We all knew. About Eddie, I mean."

Richie flinches, hands tightening around the mug. "Yeah." He clears his throat when it cracks. "I figured. Subtlety is not the Tozier way."

"Sure," Bill says, and his smile goes fond. "I always wondered why I didn't get jealous. I mean, the two of you were always on around each other, you know? Tuh-teasing and tuh-touching and flirting. When Eddie and I went dancing, I always hated watching other guys with him, but when it was you I didn't care." He tilts his head and taps his fingers on the counter, just like Valerie had, a few moments before. "Maybe I knew what Eddie and I wouldn't last, that we'd both fall in love with new people."

Richie stays quiet, trying to ignore the thrum of his blood, hot and bursting in his fingertips. "What happened?"

Bill shrugs. "You left." He slides his hand across the counter and links his fingers with Richie, squeezing gently. "Eddie lost his fire, after you left. Not all of it, but he was always so bright when you were around. And I met Audra. We - before Eddie even knew, before he and I had talked about it." Bill shakes his head, shoulders falling a little. "I hate we weren't separated before Audra and I started dating, it's the worst thing I've ever done."

"You cheated on him," Richie says flatly, and he loses just a little bit of his respect for Bill in that moment. He can't imagine how someone could give Eddie up for anyone. If you're lucky enough to love Eddie Kaspbrak and have Eddie Kaspbrak love you back, then how could you possibly give him up? It must show on his face, because Bill sighs and falls forward, collapsing.

"I did." His voice is quiet, but steady. "You know, when I told him, the first thing he said to me was 'I can't believe I'm losing you right after I lost Richie.'" Bill runs a hand through his hair. "I was so angry after he said that. How could his husband cheating on him hurt as much as the regular from his cafe moving? How could the two of us even compare?"

 _We don't_ , Richie thinks, and looks away, his gut aching fiercely, his throat and face heavy and tight and hot. 

"Stan thought the two of you were together."

Richie snorts. "Yeah, that's likely." 

Bill squeezes his hand. "He thought that maybe you two were just having sex, but then--"

"We weren't, Bill--"

"I know, you weren't, Rich--"

"How can you even think we were? How could Stan even think that? He was - he is - a dad, a husband, a fucking business owner, the smartest, most beautiful man I've ever met - and I-I-I'm a _teacher_. That's it. And back then I was a student who couldn't pay his bills and lived on coffee and Eddie Kaspbrak's motherfucking smile. I'm nothing compared to him, Bill." He's standing now, gesturing emphatically, tears stining at the corners of his eyes. He doesn't know why this hurts as much as it does. It's been five years since he last saw Eddie. He's dated people, though never for more than a couple of months. Maybe because now he's not married, because he's available, and now it's a conscious decision, not wanting Richie, instead of one of obligation. But that hurts, too, because Eddie didn't want him then, so why would he now?

Richie laughs wetly. "Fuck, he's still so beautiful." His head falls back and brings his hands up to rub at his eyes. "I can't believe I'm still in love with someone I haven't seen in five years. Thirteen goddamn years of my life lost loving Eddie Kaspbrak." He laughs again, but there's nothing funny and it hurts more than it feels good. 

He looks at Bill and finds his eyes still on him, quiet and sad and fond.  
Richie looks at his shoes and puts ten bucks on the counter. The drink is only four-ninty-five. 

"I'll see you around, Bill. I'm sorry." 

And then he leaves. 

He wants, desperately, to hear Eddie come down the stairs, to hear his voice, to see him again, but he doesn't want to, because then it'll hurt more. 

He opens the door. It drags against the floor. It creaks. 

It's raining, and Richie Tozier walks away from Eddie Kaspbrak.

 

"He left," Bill says softly when Eddie comes down the stairs, already talking to Richie about something. He stops at the foot of the stairs. 

"Oh." His head falls for a moment, and the shuttering breath that comes into his mouth is the same one Bill heard the night he told Eddie about him and Audra. It's complete and utter hurt, deep and primal and angry, but mostly, desperately sad. 

"Eddie--"

"I'm going to bed, unless you need any help with the girls."

There's no life in the way his arms wrap around his middle and the curve of his spine as he slouches into himself. Bill had seen the look on his face when he'd seen Richie - tall, pretty Richie, all big curly hair and long-fingered hands and sharp cheekbones, endearing cardigans and big glasses. He used to look at Bill like that. Like he wanted to fight for him and fight with him and fight next to him, like he saw a future in the gap between his front teeth. Bill doesn't have a gap in his front teeth anymore - he got it corrected. Richie still does. 

"I'm sorry--"

"Fuck you, Bill," Eddie whispers, and his voice breaks in the middle of his name, like he wishes it was someone else's. "You don't get to say that to me anymore. I lost him and you in the same fucking month, and I'm losing ma, as much as I can't fucking stand her, and I lost him again, Bill, God I can't - I can't lose him again. I never - I never even had him, fuck, this is so stupid."

Bill stays quiet. 

Eddie climbs three flights of stairs to bed and sleeps for two days.  
Bill writes a note, tucks it into a blue envelope and slides it under Eddie's door on the third day.

_Eddie,_  
_I wanted to tell you what Richie told me before he left. Maybe you don't want to hear, but I think you need to._  
_I told him about what happened, about Audra and me. He hates me, just a little, for cheating on you, I think, which is okay. He couldn't believe it when I told him that Stan thought the two of you were together. He said that someone as smart and beautiful as you couldn't love him. He called you beautiful again before he left. 'The most beautiful man he'd ever met,' actually. He said he'd spent thirteen years of his life loving you._

_Valerie looked him up - he's just transfered to Columbia, to become Department Head for Biological Sciences. His mail code is 2402. His office number is 331._  
_Eddie, please._

_Love,_  
_Bill (and Valerie)_


	2. well, time has a way of throwing it all in your face

"Professor Tozier, you've got a call."

"Thank you, Eleanor you minx." 

Surrounded by piles of papers - stapled and unstapled, in folders and not, despite the very strict formatting that he's positive he assigned them, he's inclined to give them a fucking 'A' if they wrote in Times New Roman. Some little shit wrote in comic sans. He can practically smell it. It was probably Kai, he thinks, and then wrinkles his nose. Sexist, anti-semitic piece of shit, and piss for brains to boot. Richie shrugs and goes back to digging, momentarily forgetting the presence of his secretary at the door. 

"It's actually Margaret." 

He startles and-- "Fuck me." Richie's head clunks on his desk and he sighs out his mouth. "You're a little minx, too, my dear. It's been one fuckhole of a day."

Margaret clucks, but he can hear the smile in her voice when she says, "I heard you arguing with your students. Formatting?"

Richie waves his hand. " Handing things in unstapled, in pencil.  _Pencil._ Do you know how much of a bitch that is to read? They're annoying little fucks, but it's just karma. I was such a douche canoe to my teachers.

"Oh, I remember, Professor." She winks. "Call on line one."

"Thank you, my love."

The door closes with a click. 

Richie looks at the phone on his desk. It's an old, clunky thing with jamming buttons and a layer of greasy dust. A red light flashes next to '1.' He groans and picks it up. It slips through his fingers - greasy dust - and he spends a few moments comically trying to catch the slippery landline in his hands. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," he mutters. He gets it in both hands and presses it to his ear, hard, willing his voice to not sound too breathy as he says, "Microbio office" into the slimy receiver. 

"I'm looking for Professor Tozier." It's a woman's voice, even and friendly-sounding. 

"Uh huh," Richie says, and risks holding the phone one-handed to wrestle a pouch of wet wipes out of his desk drawer. 

"Oh, perfect. How are you, Professor?"

"Just dandy, thank you." He covers the receiver with one hand and drops the wet wipes on the floor. "Fuck," he says. "Margaret!" 

"Yes?" she says, leaning against the doorframe, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. 

"Write a note for me to go and buy a new fucking phone this thing is disgusting." 

Margaret tilts her head and wrinkles her nose. "It would be. Professor Colburt loved his Boston creams."

Richie shudders. "That better not be a fucking innuendo, Margaret, God, I don't even wanna think about that man having sex."

Margaret laugh, a sharp thing she hides in the palm of her hand as her cheek flush. She closes his door softly, mouthing  _cellphone_  at him. He gives her an exaggerated thumbs-up, almost dropping the landline as he does so. 

"Professor Tozier?" The woman on the line asks, and Richie jumps. 

"Uh yes? Sorry, I'm having some trouble--"

"--I heard. Old landline?"

He rubs at his eyes, before pulling away because  _ew he'd touched the phone with those fingers._ He's thinking about Professor Colbert and his receding hairline and beady eyes and his permanently yellowed and dirt-ridden fingernails getting off and fuck he's gonna be sick. 

"Professor, would it be possible to talk to you on your cell? I know it's unconventional--"

"--No!" Richie squawks, surging forward and banging his knee on the underside of his desk. He takes a long breath, biting down hard on his lower lip, trying not to shout or swear. "Please save me from this disgusting-ass phone."

The woman on the other end laughs, little bell sounds in his ear. "Of course, sir. May I have your number?"

"Nine one seven."

"Uh huh."

"Three eight nine--"

"--Yep."

"Four six oh seven."

"Perfect! Thank you, Professor, I'll call you in a moment." 

Richie puts the phone down with a loud clunk, thanking whoever had the poor design taste to put sinks and little lab benches in all the science teachers' offices. His phone starts ringing. "Fuck, fuck,  _fuck_  today - Jesus goddamn Christ." He wipes his hands on his slacks and ignores the thought that there's probably a lot of shit on his pants that he doesn't want on his hands as he answers the call. 

"Hi," he says, and throws himself into his chair. It squeaks, a little ominously and if the damn thing fucking breaks he's going to lose his mind. 

"Hi, Professor," the woman says. 

"What can I for you today, my darling?" 

There's the little bell laugh again. It sounds familiar, but he can't quite place it. 

"Well, I'm interested in getting into the microbiology program at McGill, and well, I heard you taught there?" 

"I did, yeah, for like five years. It's a good school. Nice campus. You speak French?"

"I'm fluent, yes."

"You got a francophone parent?" Richie's not sure why he's still asking her questions. She's not frazzled by him - he's loud, and he's snapped into the phone a couple times and he's sure he doesn't sound like he's having a particularly good day. But she's still there. 

"Well, papa went to  _Université de Québec a Montréal_ , and he's been teaching me. My dad doesn't speak French though, so the two of us like to tease him."

"Oh." Richie frowns and shifts forward in his chair. "I have a friend who went to UQAM. Probably fifteen years ago, now. And his husband--"

Her laugh sounds just like Eddie's when he's tired and a little drunk, floaty and off - higher-pitched than his usual ugly, snorting laugh - and it's not likely, but who many young women are there with two dads, one fluent in French, one not, who went to UQAM and who would give a damn about Richie Tozier? 

Also, she likes to meddle, clearly. She picked that up from Beverly. Maybe Stan.

"Valerie?" he says, quiet. 

"Hi, Richie," she says sweetly.

"Why're you calling me, sweatpea? Everything okay?" He's trying not to fidget, but his leg is already bouncing beneath his desk, tap tap tapping against the wood. Eddie's fine, he thinks. He's fine. He's a grown man, who can handle himself and he's got a network of support around him and he's  _fine._ God, he sounds like his therapist. 

"Everything's fine."

See? Eddie's fine. 

"Dad's not doing so well, though."

Nevermind. 

"He's been weird ever since you left. Well, the second time."

Richie flinches. He clears his throat and blinks away tears. "Uh, right. That was a thing I did."

"Yes, it was." Her voice goes sharp around the edges, and Richie braces himself because  _God_ she's just like her dad and this is going to suck. "And what exactly did you think you were doing?" 

"Listen - Valerie--"

"Dad and papa have been divorced for  _years_. I barely remember when they were married! Rosie doesn't remember it at all! She calls Audra 'mom,' and dad's so upset, he's barely talking and I don't know what to do, Richie, he was like this when him and dad got divorced but it--" She breaks off into hiccuping little sobs, muffled by her palm. 

"Oh, sweetpea, hey hey, you're okay, Val, you're okay, your dad's okay, I promise." 

He'd forgotten, really, his weakness for Rose and Valerie. When they were younger - six and three, little girls with pigtails and button noses - Eddie had teased him incessantly about how quickly he'd fold to what they wanted. He loved making them laugh  - when Rosie was a baby and Bill was in Sacramento - he carried her, a diaper bag and her soother to the library to his lecture halls. He brought Valerie to his classes all the time - she'd sit next to him and colour, or ask questions about the presentations going past on the screen. When she was five - about a year before he left - she started bringing coloured pens to help him coordinate his notes after he'd mentioned how disorganized he was to Eddie. She spent an entire summer afternoon going through his notes, using sticky notes and the label-maker and folders, coloured pens and new binders, putting his information for his classes together. 

He had a few friends who assumed he was a single dad, and might have never realized that they weren't his - he moved without telling anyone he had accepted a position, not even his favourite teachers. 

She takes a shuddering breath. "Papa's away with Audra for the next couple months, and I knew it was happening 'cause we talked about it a lot, but dad's so out of it--"

"Wait, um." He stops, chews the inside of his cheek. "Uh, do you know if your dad takes pills in the morning still?"

"Yeah?" Valerie says, her voice high-pitched and a little confused, stuffy with her crying. "Just vitamins. We all take them."

"He doesn't take any extra vitamins?" 

"I don't know." She sounds lost and scared, and Richie's everything hurts. 

"It's okay, Val. Where's Beverly?"

"She's with Millie at the cafe."

"Okay, sweetpea, I want you to go down and see her and put her on the phone for me, okay? And then stay with her, I'll sort something out with her." 

The first Monday morning he'd come into the cafe and Eddie hadn't been there had been November 11, in his first year. He was still new and he hadn't even expected the cafe to be open, but it was, and it's the only reason he remembers the date. But Eddie wasn't there. Bill was. He looked drawn and tired, and there was bruising and cuts on his knuckles. Richie hadn't asked. He'd made a joke about fighting off the ladies that Bill had given a whole-hearted laugh at, and he'd moved on. He came back Tuesday, then Wednesday, then Thursday, then Friday. The Monday of the following week, Eddie wasn't there. 

It took three weeks for Eddie to come back, and when he was back, he was drawn and small and quiet. He laughed at Richie's jokes, but he tucked his laughter into his collar and made extra sure their fingers didn't brush when he handed off Richie's mocha. He stayed small for the next six months. And if he wasn't small, he was angry, all sharp-corners. He lost twenty pounds and then gained thirty, lost forty and gained ten. He complained about headaches. His hands shook so bad he wasn't allowed to make or serve at the cafe. He slept for four days straight and then came back with his hair bleached - he looked  _really_ good with white-blonde hair, but Richie had, at that point, still been pretending that he didn't notice Eddie Kaspbrak. 

One night, late on a Wednesday, Eddie was a little more Eddie than he'd been. Richie asked, very softly, what had happened.  _That's_ when Richie had started acknowledging Eddie Kaspbrak, because he's only known him for nine months and he undoubtedly in love with him. 

"Richie?" A woman's voice swam over the phone and Richie jerked. 

"Bev, Eddie's having an episode."

"What?" She squawked and there was the frantic sound of a young child being handed off and the smack of a kiss on the forehead. "How can you even know--"

"Valerie just called me at work. She said that something's wrong with Eddie and that Bill's away with Audra. Bevvie, what  _happened?_ " 

She sighed. 

There was a dragging sound and then a thunk as Beverly slid down the wall and sat heavily on the floor. One of her hands came up to rub through her hair, before stopping an inch from her scalp. Slowly, her hand lands on her head, completely smooth. Her father called a week ago. Ben suggested that she shave her head, mostly as a joke, and she'd done it. Millie thought it was cute. Beverly thought she looked like a badass. She was sure that Richie would make several off colour jokes and smiled, a just a little. She missed him. She missed his grin, big incisors and buck-teeth, chapped lips and freckles and moles, his big hands and his sharp, violent quips, his shattered nose. 

She looks up and Valerie is sliding down the wall across from her, tucking her knees into her chest. She blinks big eyes at Beverly, puts her chin on her forearms and waits. 

"Bill and Audra have been planning this trip for months - for their five year. But Bill and Eddie had a screaming match before he left and they haven't done that since you left the first time. It scared the shit out of Valerie and Rosie. Rosie won't look at him, Richie, it's--" Her voice cracks. It's been a long time since her family was in such disarray. Last time she didn't have Richie. "--it's horrible to watch. It keeps making me think about what I would do if Millie stopped talking to me--"

"Bevvie," Richie says, and it's the sternest she's ever heard him sound, all sharp and old and teacher-y. "Millie loves you, she's your daughter. Rosie loves Eddie, she's just scared. He can be scary when he's having an episode, especially because she's too young to understand what's happening." His voice stays even, carefully measured words. "Now, before Eddie's episode, did anything--"

"Sonia died." She hears Richie's breath hitch. "He was there. She went into a diabetic coma and they couldn't do anything, so Eddie--" Bev drags her hand over her head, tugs at her earlobe. "--They had to take her off life support."

She expects some big  _something_. Richie is an emotion in an old flannel and skinny jeans, hidden under curly hair. But the longer he goes without saying anything, just breathing, like he's considering something, like he's  _pausing,_ the more she thinks that maybe Richie isn't who he used to be, and maybe that's a good thing. Maybe he doesn't burn quite as brightly as he did before, or maybe it's just as bright but he's a tealight in a mason jar instead of a bonfire in an apartment living room. 

"Okay, you gorgeous asshole--" There he is "--Take Valerie and Rosie home tonight, keep them for the next few days. I'm gonna come over and get Eds back on his feet."

"Rich, are you sure?"

Are you sure? He's going to scream. He might lash out. He might hurt you. 

"I'm sure, Bevvie. Val still with you?"

Beverly looks at Valerie, whose big brown eyes are already fixed on her. She tries to smile, but Valerie's not stupid and she's been listening any ways. "Yeah, she is," Bev says, whisper-soft. 

Richie's voice loses all the surety he'd had only moments before. "Can... Can I talk to her maybe?"

Valerie nods, a tiny smile gracing her face as Beverly hands off the phone. "Hi Richie," she says. 

 _Hi sweetpea._ Bev can just barely hear his tinny voice through the phone.  _You doing okay?_

Valerie chews on her thumb. "Yeah, I'm okay. You're going to take care of dad?"

_Yeah, I'll look after your old man._

She laughs, very lightly and tilts her head back against the wall. "Thanks, Richie." 

_No problem, sweetpea. You heard everything about the next few days?_

"Yeah. What's - What's wrong with dad? I mean, I know it's some kind of... mental illness? I guess?"

_I wanna tell you, honey, I really do, but I think your dad should tell you, 'kay? It just got bad because when your grandma died he went off his medication._

She looks satisfied by that answer, a little more relaxed. She trusts Richie, more than she trusts Stan and Mike, maybe even Bill. Though she pretends not to, Bev knows that she remembers the day Bill told Eddie about Audra. She remembers the fights and the day they signed the divorce papers and the day they stopped wearing their rings, the day Bill moved out and Rosie cried but she didn't understand why her parents didn't sleep in the same room, in the same house anymore. 

"Okay," Valerie murmurs. 

_Do you actually not remember me, sweetpea?_

She rolls her eyes and her smiles get a little brighter. "No, I remember you."

 _Ha!_ Richie laughs and Bev can feel tears spring to her eyes, because this is what phone calls to parents look like, not the awkward, stilted things she saw between Eddie and Sonia, that are slowly developing between Valerie and Bill. 

_You wanna study microbiology, huh?_

"Ayuh." With a huff, Valerie bites her tongue. Eddie's been trying to get her to drop the Maine twang, because it singles her out. Beverly thinks it's his own fault - he's the only one of the four of them who grew up in Maine (Mike, Bill, herself and Eddie) and still has the accent. 

_Bevvie's gonna bring you back to your house next uh Monday, I think, so we'll crash in your dad's room with Rosie and talk about it, okay?_

Valerie goes  _radiant._ Her shoulders fall and her fingers uncurl from the fabric of her (Bill's) sweatshirt. Her brown eyes lose their wrinkles and she bites down on her lower lip, squeaking a little. "Okay, Richie," she says, and it sounds like 'dad.' 

_Alrighty, my lovely little lady. Tell your aunt Bev that I'll see her on Monday and not to worry about Spaghetti._

"Spagh--dad's going to  _kill_ you if you call him that!" Giggles, young and girlish, fall out of her mouth. 

 _Wouldn't be the first time he's tried, sweetpea, he's too short to strangle me._ She just keeps giggling, one hand over her mouth, and God she's only eleven but she's going to be in university in a couple years.  _Give Millie and Rosie a kiss for me, yeah? Call me if you need anything. Bev's got my number._

"Okay, Richie. Bye." She hangs up and gives Beverly the phone, bouncing up, lighter and softer than before. 

Beverly tilts her head back, watching her profile for a second. Bill never wanted kids, and she knows because they dated and got to the point where talking about kids was a thing they did. Eddie loves kids. So does Richie, and maybe, just maybe, Valerie and Rosie will get the two dads they deserve. 

Valerie pulls her up, and tugs her into the cafe, immediately tugging Rosie into a hug, whispering into her sister's ear, smiling brightly. Rosie laughs, snorting a little, just like Eddie. 

Beverly smiles. Maybe. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come talk to me at gay-for-roxane and share your thoughts?


	3. All we knew of home was just a sunset and some clowns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i did it!! i said i would!  
> though i added another chapter but it's an epilogue so that's not really the same thing?

 

Eddie didn't graduate high school.

Junior year and his mother got sick - real sick, not like the bullshit she'd pulled on him for years, but the kind of sick that pulls at your skin and stretches your pores, breaks and beats your voice and your eyes and your energy until it's gone and there's nothing left. He didn't understand until he was twenty-two that Sonia Kaspbrak was permanently sick. And that it wasn't just meningitis - it was bipolar disorder and Munchausen syndrome.

The meningitis picked at her brain when he was seventeen and left her without a frontal lobe, with the decision-making skills of a fourteen-year-old girl. He lived on the street, worked at a Starbucks that paid him two cents more than minimum wage with a manager who mocked him with a five-cent raise when he mentioned money problems. 

His mom died when he was seventeen. 

Sonia Kaspbrak died twenty-four years later. 

Eddie Kaspbrak almost followed. 

 

_thursday._

Eddie's room smells like sweat and vomit and cigarette smoke and cheese pizza from that shitty place on fourth street that's designed to induce cardiac arrest. 

Richie leans against the doorframe, crosses his arms and ankles and lets himself bask in the sheer  _incredulity_ of this entire fucking experience. There are empty tea cups and bottles of vodka and Strongbow on the floor, pizza and take-out boxes, two ashtrays filled to the brim with ash. There's a sock on the dresser, on top of a pizza box. If Richie doesn't clean this shit up, Eddie's going to have another episode just because of how much of a fucking disaster his room is. Well, not literally. Richie tilts his head, narrows his eyes at the Eddie-shaped lump in the middle of the bed. He might, actually - just out of spite for Richie for leaving for five years. 

The comforter shifts as Eddie rolls over, makes a tiny noise in the back of his throat, burrowing deeper into his sheets. 

"Cleaning supplies," Richie mutters. "Cleaning supplies, cleaning supplies, where for art thou cleaning supplies, you motherfuckers?"

It takes him four and a half hours to dig through the cupboards in the apartment, to wrestle out grime-be-gone and clean-as-a-whistle, toilet bowl cleaner and a  _lot_ of jaycloths, and then to clean every inch of Eddie's room. He goes through eight garbage bags worth of old food, beer cans, and half-empty bottles of vodka, and then goes through the kitchen and throws out all the alcohol he finds. In the freezer are two dozen packs of cigarettes - king-sized Belmonts, all wrapped pretty in their plastic and white-and-orange logo. He throws those out, too. And then the pack (of Pell-mells) in the pocket of his blazer. He finds three pairs of panties, too big to be Bev's or Eddie's. Or any of their friends. They're stained in a way he really wishes they weren't and he has to sit on the counter for a few moments, downing two cups of coffee straight. Last time he checked, Eddie was as gay as picnic-basket. But he's also insecure, with a deeply abusive and homophobic mother. Richie tilts his head against the cupboards. 

There is the very real possibility that Eddie will want nothing to do with Richie, that Richie will spend these hours cleaning for him, trying to take care of him, and that he will tell him to leave with that tight, uncomfortable smile he reserves for strangers who touch him without permission. Unfortunately, Richie is in love enough that he's okay with that. 

"Rich?" 

Richie jerks, spilling his coffee over his hands and nearly slipping off the counter. He swears and slides off, running cold water over the already-stinging burn. He hears Eddie's slow footsteps, the soft sound of feet in wool socks as he reaches for Richie's hand, holds it in both of his own and runs his thumbs over the sore skin, pulling it under the water completely. He squeezes Richie's hand, and ducks to reach under the sink, coming up with a boxy first aid kit. He pulls out gauze and tape and a tiny jar labelled  _burn ointment_  and places them on the counter. 

Richie watches him, his mouth a little open. 

Eddie's hair is greasy, sticking up at odd angles. There's sleep at the corners of his eyes and along his waterline, and his eyelashes are clumped together. His eyes don't open all the way. One of his eyebrows is sticking up the wrong way. The grey shirt he's wearing slips off one shoulder and his boxers are black, but both are sweat-stained and stained with food and grease. He looks horrible. Richie can smell his breath, all cigarettes and vodka and pizza. There's a spot of what looks like vomit in the corner of his mouth. 

Richie  _really_ wants to kiss him. 

Eddie reaches for the roll of paper towel and pats his hand dry, murmuring quietly when Richie winces. He opens the jar of ointment carefully, turns to wash his hands before spotting the clear gel over the bright red skin, extra gentle over the blisters. 

"I didn't mean to scare you," Eddie says, very softly. His voice is raw from disuse and chain-smoking. He tapes a piece of gauze down on Richie's burn, smooths his fingers over to edges to hold it down. Beneath his fingernails is a layer of dirt and his cuticles are raw and sore-looking. "Thank you. For cleaning." Eddie clears his throat. He tucks his hands into his ribs, curling in on himself. His chin drops to his chest and he stares resolutely at the floor. "You don't have to - you can - you can leave."

Richie's heart ticks against the skin of his throat. "Do you want me to leave?"

Hesitation steeps in the room. It soaks into the floor and into their pores, catches on the edges of the countertops and the thrum of the dishwasher and the washing machine. 

_Please ask me to say,_ Richie thinks, but the silence keeps stretching and Eddie isn't looking at him, so he coughs into his hand and turns away, knocking his knuckles against the counter. It splits the room in two. Richie, Eddie. A very important comma, keeping them separated. He's by the stairs that lead down to the cafe, his jacket in his hands, the soft brown leather giving. Eddie used to steal this jacket - he loved it and it swam endearingly around his shoulders, over his hands. 

"No," Eddie whispers. 

Richie looks at him, his hand on the doorknob. Eddie hasn't moved, but his head is raised, just enough to meet Richie's eyes quietly. 

_Say it._ Richie feels his knuckles go white.  _Say it, Eddie, let me stay with you._

"Please, Rich." He gasps and hiccoughs as a sob tears through his mouth and spills out his mouth and he collapses into himself. "Please don't--"

Richie takes one, two, three huge strides to wrap his arms around Eddie and tug him into his chest, buries his nose in his hair. Small hands clutch at his cardigan and Eddie breathes shakey breaths into Richie's shoulder, pressed as close as he can be. 

"I got you, Eds," Richie mutters and presses a kiss to Eddie's hair, pulls back enough to press kisses over his cheeks and into his temple, to his nose. He holds Eddie's face in both hands, smooths his thumbs along his cheeks and leans their foreheads together. "God, you smell terrible."

Eddie laughs wetly and tucks his face back into Richie's shoulder. 

"When was the last time you showered?" 

Eddie just shakes his head, hiding deeper into Richie, greedy, like he's breathing him, desperate to memorize him before he leaves again. 

"C'mon, baby," Richie murmurs, delighting in the squeak Eddie gives him. "Let's get you in the shower." 

When Monday comes around, Bev doesn't know what to expect. 

 

She can't help but remember Eddie's mother, the way her throat boiled and her words left blisters when they landed. She spent too many years helping Eddie crawl and then stand and then walk and then run through the pain for him to become her. 

Georgie is running the cafe, bright-eyed and crooked teeth, winking at Bev through the week-day morning rush. She rolls her eyes. In her arms, Millie giggles. A few of the regulars greet her and stop to chat and she falls into conversation easily. The last thing she wants to do is go upstairs and find Richie gone and Eddie in bed, smoking. Or on the balcony, throwing back vodka and cider like it's all he can taste. She gets closer and closer to the stairs up to the apartment, too close to ignore that that where she's going. 

Betty, an older, greying woman with a bad limp and a limp arm leans close to Bev, puts her good hand on her forearm and says, "Tell that Kaspbrak boy I hope he's doing well. And that his new boyfriend is so charming!" Bev smiles and tells her she will. 

"You ready, Val?"

She's a willowy kind of girl, with an unusual shape to her shape cheekbones and jaw that makes her look old and worm-out despite being only eleven. Her hair is more ash than brown and in some lights it looks grey. Her mouth turns down at the corners. She very rarely laughs and she's sharper than her dad and meaner than her papa, even more willing to hit and get hit than him. But her eyes are huge and soft and brown, just like Eddie's. Her nose is small and round, like Bill's was when he was little. When she does smile, it's radiant and her tongue curls out from behind her white teeth. Bev wishes she had been raised by men who were a little angry, a little less combative, by lovers, not fighters. 

Maybe someone like Richie.

Valerie looks at the stairs up to the apartment like they're alien and dark, cluttered with cobwebs and bad dreams. She nods. 

The stairs creak. 

The doorknob squeaks. 

 

And when Bev pokes her head around the corner, she smells earl grey tea and shortbread, the rich, dark smell of Eddie's brownie recipe. 

Eddie cannot bake while in a bad mood - it's one of his many rules for life. 

Staring at the kitchen in disbelief, the door swung open all the way, Valerie next to her, Rosie holding Valerie's hand and Millie on Bev's chest, she remembers Christmas when she was thirty-five. Richie was twenty-four. Bill was away for Christmas, locked in the middle of Denbrough family drama (His seventeen-year-old sister was no longer a sister, but a brother, and Eleanor was no longer Eleanor, but Georgie, and Mrs. Denbrough was having an unnecessary but foreseen crisis), and Richie had offered to help Eddie out with the girls. 

Little Rosie was new and fat and young, still a gurgling little thing with big eyes and a happy baby laugh. Valerie was five and already in the second grade, though still the age when her parents were her heroes. They all ignored that Bill was not one of these parents. No, it was Richie, loud and bright and sharp. 

Bev remembers that Christmas partly as the post-skinny Richie Christmas and as the Christmas she realized. 

He was still putting on the weight he had lost in the few previous months, where he had fluctuating between severely underweight and mildly underweight. It was two weeks after his fourth hospital visit in three months. He'd admitted to Stan, quiet, his face tucked down, plucking at scratchy hospital sheets, his wrists barely-there and his hands shaking desperately, that his girlfriend, Allie, wasn't letting him eat. 

The next day, Mike quietly told Bev that Allie had been admitted with bruises on her stomach, a dislocated arm, a broken nose and two black eyes. She had refused to press charges, refused to tell Mike who had hurt her. 

Bill and Eddie had matching bruises and cuts on their knuckles the next day and Bev had wavered between pride and shame ever since. She pretends she doesn't know. Richie never found out. 

But that Christmas Richie was slowly reteaching his body and his mind that food was not an enemy. 

In the kitchen, with its yellow walls and white-and-black checkered floors and its white countertops and cupboards, Eddie is popped up on the counter, flour on his cheeks and smeared across his forehead, raspberry filling in the corner of his mouth, laughing loudly, clutching his stomach and ribs. Richie is standing on the island, lipsyncing

to  _Down Under_  and trying not to put his foot in the still-hot cookies. 

_Lyin' in a den in Bombay_

_With a slack jaw and not much to say_

It's the same song as years ago, the same scene, the same sounds. Bev blinks and it's 2012 and Richie is wearing a plaid shirt that hangs off his shoulders and jeans cinched up with a makeshift belt - a line of twine he'd found at the cafe. Eddie's hair is shorter, more severe, and he's wearing an old t-shirt and tiny red shorts, socks with avocados on them up to his calves. When they see Ben and Bev, Richie hops off the counter and crowds them both into a hug. She can feel his sharp ribs and sharp elbows when he does.

She blinks again and it's 2018. Richie's hair is piled on top of his head in a bun and his fingers glitter with rings. He's wearing loose cotton pants and a cardigan, a thinning White Stripes shirt. Eddie is cross-legged on the counter in grey sweatpants and a white henley. His hair curls around his years, salted at the temples, streaked through with silver. There are bright flowers on the backs of his hands and his forearms and biceps, curling over his collarbone where the shirt hangs loose and up his neck, behind his ear. Richie hops off the counter and pulls Eddie into him. Strong thighs curl around Richie's waist and strong arms wrap around his shoulders. 

Beside her, Valerie cocks her head. 

Bev tries to remember the last time Bill and Eddie were so affectionate with each other. Years. It's been years since Valerie has seen her father display the kind of tenderness he shows for Richie in this moment. 

When Eddie raises his head and sees them, no one moves. Richie pulls away slowly and turns to look at them. Rosie goes to hide behind Valerie. 

A soft smile cracks over Richie's face, the gentle kind of smile a parent gives a child. "Hey, sweet-pea," He says to Valerie and cocks his head, leaning down to catch Rosie's eyes.

"Hi, bug." Rosie blinks up at him, then at her dad, still sitting on the counter, his legs around Richie. 

"Daddy?" Her voice is thick and high and sweet with tears. She brings both hands up to wipe at her eyes and Eddie slowly slides off the counter, and down the cabinets to sit on the floor. 

"Hi, sweetheart." Eddie smiles very quietly. He looks terrified of what Rosie is going to do, if she's going to run or go back to hiding behind Valerie. She steps forward, falters, and then runs at him, tumbling into his lap and wrapping her arms around his shoulders, shaking and crying. The moment she lands on his thighs, Eddie is crying too, holding onto her and whispering to her, his mouth against her forehead and temple and the top of her head. "I'm so sorry, Bug, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to scare you, honey, I'm sorry." 

Richie steps around Eddie and Rosie to Beverly and Millie and Valerie. Bev is on the floor against the door, Millie in her lap. Valerie is standing. She looks old and awkward and lost, staring at her dad like she's remembering something about him she'd forgotten. 

Richie grabs one of her hands and pulls her into him, sinks down the wall with her at his side, her head on his shoulder, their knees tucked close together. He wraps his arm around her shoulders. 

Beverly watches him press a kiss to her forehead and murmur something in her hair. Valerie smiles at him, then reaches up to boop his nose, laughing at the funny face he makes as she does. She does it again. 

Millie gurgles in her lap, surging forward to try and get to Eddie, who is standing with Rosie on his hip, looking at Richie and Valerie with a funny expression on his face. 

He coughs. "Bev, could you help--"

Bev stands, listens to the slide of wool socks against tile as she hip checks him and sets their girls on the counter side-by-side. He says something about raspberries that makes her laugh. They tuck the youngest girls into bed and eat half a pan of brownies. Richie and Valerie are still on the floor, talking loudly, hands moving quickly. He's drawing on the wall with his finger, gesturing wildly and she catches the words 'biological catalyst' and something that ends in 'itis' but she doesn't know what he means. Valerie does though, because she lights up and her hands come up against his on the wall as they talk through something together. 

"Rich!" Eddie says, then waves his glass of milk at the tray of brownies. "Come eat some of these before Bev and I have them all." 

"Fuck, those're your mom's recipe, yeah?" Richie's clambering to his feet. Valerie doesn't move, suddenly interested in her socks, but Richie grabs her under the armpits and hauls her up, throwing her without grace over one shoulder. 

"Richie!" She snaps, huffing as he plops her down on the counter and shoves half a brownie in her mouth, waving her protests away, the other half of the brownie sticky on his fingers and lips. 

"Sh'up, Val," he says, pointing at her, mock-stern. She rolls her eyes. Long-fingered hands reach for Eddie, grabbing his face, pulling him close enough to lay a long smacking kiss on his mouth. 

Richie's gaze lands on the smear of raspberry still in the corner of Eddie's mouth and leans in to lick it off. Eddie squawks and slaps his shoulder, squirming away. 

"Aw, Eds, baby, c'mere, just gimme a kiss!" 

"Gross," Valerie says, absently, licking the remnants of a second brownie off her fingers. 

"You don't get to say anything about us being gross! You think the digestive system is  _cool_." He brings his left hand up in an 'L' on his forehead. 

Valerie glances at Eddie, who's rolling his eyes at Bev, and raises her middle finger at Richie, sticking her tongue out at him. "Also - you  _teach_ that stuff! You're, like, the king of thinking weird shit is cool--"

"Valerie Sonia, I will make you wash your mouth out with soap," Eddie snaps. 

"--Like dad! Dad's weird and you like him!"

"That's different," Richie insists, and both of them start arguing, talking over Eddie, who's trying to tame them, and Bev, who's laughing beneath her palm. 

"Girls!" Bev says, loud enough to cut through the argument and Richie and Valerie turn to her at the same time and say, "It wasn't my fault!" pointing at one another. 

Bev scoffs. Her eyes go a little sharp, a little wicked, and her grabs a brownie and chucks it at Richie, shouting "think fast!" when it's already mostly in his eye. 

"Fuck!" He shouts and lunges at her, both of them chasing each other around the island, trying to fake each other out. 

Valerie boosts herself up onto the counter next to Eddie, elbows him. He looks at her and smiles very softly. 

"I'm sorry, Val."

She watches Richie grab a handful of flour and shove it down the front of Beverly's shirt. Her dad hasn't been happy in a long time. She knows that. She sees the way he stopped smiling when Bill stopped coming around to the cafe and the fits of tears and blankness between Richie leaving and grandma dying. Eddie huffs a warm laugh, rolling his eyes as Richie presses kisses all over Bev's face, like a six foot three black lab. 

"I forgive you, dad," she murmurs, because her counsellor taught her not to say 'it's okay.' 

Eddie looks a bit like he's going to cry. Valerie groans. 

"Don't! Dad, don't cry 'cause then Richie'll cry and that's too much for all of us."

"It's true," Richie says, though he's pinned under Bev and trying to buck his way out, and doesn't seem to know what he's agreeing to. 

Eddie looks at Valerie. She laughs at Richie and he flips her off. She's got Richie's eyes. He doesn't know how and he knows it's not even possible, but she's got Richie's eyes, big and brown and soft. 

Eddie smiles and thinks that maybe, _maybe_ , this will work. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you're all so great! come and bother me at gay-for-roxane *love*


	4. Love to just get into some of your stories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love you ALL i fricking finished this which is RIDICULOUS  
> huge amounts of love to Laura (creamy-brown-eyes on tumblr) and Sara (skeletonscribbles) and Callie (skylarkalchemist) who are wonderful and lovely and are the only reason i actually finished this thing

Georgie Denbrough has seen a lot of weird shit in his life. His brother is twice his age and kind of a weird guy - he's horrendously fond of his greasy ponytail - and his brother-in-law is a short, tattooed, germaphobe with some serious mental health issues and the coolest plugs he's ever seen. His aunt? Friend? Sort of sister-in-law? is a tough-as-balls cop with no hair and an impressive ability to wear red lipstick and high heels while kicking his ass at Mario Kart or Call of Duty, whichever she's feeling. His niece is a literal genius. His other niece doesn't really speak, ever, even though she's eight. His youngest niece is afraid of bowling pins but not the gigantic spider that hangs out in the far corner of the cafe. 

But seeing his brother's ex-husband's new boyfriend making a chai latte for Lorenzo, who's in every morning before class, somehow takes the cake. 

He forgot that he's actually got Thursday off this week, but he woke up and came to Cuppa out of pure habit. It's six-thirty in the morning and he wishes he was still sleeping, his binder is folded under between his shoulder blades, pressing uncomfortably against a weirdly painful bunch of zits on his back; it's been raining for six days straight and the streets are wet and Georgie  _forgot_ when he left the house and his chucks are soaked through. 

But it's fine. Whatever. 

He needs coffee and minimal conversation and to leave as quickly as possible. 

So when he pushes the door to Cuppa open, listens to it creak, when he pushes it closed behind him and sidesteps the bumpy floorboard, and he sees the incredibly tall, thin man with the wild hair and the enormous smile at the bar, he assumes they've hired a new guy. But he looks a little closer. He looks at the guy's round, wire-rimmed glasses and his brown eyes, deep and warming and laughing, at his freckles, at the tangled ringlets falling in his face and then at the painting by the door and - yeah. That's him. He's thinner. He's better dressed. He looks happier, but it's him. 

Richie Tozier. 

Georgie has heard  _a lot_ about Richie Tozier. Mostly from Bill, right after he and Eddie got divorced, while he was very drunk and spewing reason after reason that they could never work out, as if cheating on his husband didn't really take the cake on Reasons to No Longer Be Married. Richie Tozier, Bill slurred, fuckin Richie Tozier. He heard a little bit from Bev too. She'd ruffle his hair or grab him and rub at his hair till he yelled at her, then laugh and say how much he reminded her of Richie Tozier. 

"Hey, kid," Richie says, leaning nodding at Lorenzo as he pushes past Georgie and into the rain. 

The splash of cars driving by and people talking and someone swearing and the gentle trickle of water running from the eavestrough invades the shop for a moment. The door closes and it's gone. 

"Can I do anything for you?" Richie raises an eyebrow and Georgie realizes he must look like an idiot, standing the doorway, his hair plastered to his face, wide-eyed. 

"Yeah, sorry man--"

"Georgie!" 

He startles and sees Valerie come barreling at him from the bathrooms. She clambers up him and wraps her arms around his neck, her hands still a little wet. He catches her out of pure habit, still looking at Richie (Richie Tozier - feels like a fucking legend or something), and realizes that she's talking to him, babbling more excitedly than he's seen in a long time. 

"Dad's better! Well, he's still sick, obviously, but he's out of bed and he's working the cafe with Richie and they let me stay up last night and eat brownies and it was so fun!" 

"Uh," Georgie says, jerking a little as Valerie jumps off of him and grabs her backpack from beside the door. 

"Anyways, I have to go, I have to study for the biology test third period. Bye, Georgie! Bye, Richie, love you!" And then there's the rain again, and the cars, and the gust of warm-ish air and then silence. 

Richie blinks at the door. Georgie looks at them, both a little wind-blown and owlish. 

"Uh. Hi?" Georgie says, and his hand comes up to rub at the back of his neck, his gaze fixed on the ground. 

"Hi." 

Georgie looks up and Richie's got both hands on the back of his neck, clasped together staring down at the counter. 

"I'm Georgie--"

"Look, I--"

They both stop, and finally make eye contact, amused smiles on their mouths. Richie rolls his eyes and hops the counter, reaching a hand out to Georgie and meeting him by the door in three long strides. "I'm Richie Tozier."

"Georgie Denbrough." Richie's hands are huge and calloused and sort of covered in coffee grounds and what looks like chocolate and raspberry sauce - mocha ingredients. 

"Denbrough?" Richie cocks his head, frowning at him, eyes tracing over his face, up to his short blue hair and down to the ring in his lip. Georgie chews on his upper lip and lets Richie examine him, even though the question he's about to hear makes him desperately uncomfortable.  _I didn't know Bill had a younger brother_ or  _oh you used to be - you know. Eleanor._ or  _when did you start transitioning?_

But Richie just shrugs, dropping his hand and moving to hop back over the counter, glancing towards the stairs before he does. Georgie hides a smile. Eddie hates it when he hops the counter and he imagines Richie has heard almost the same lecture he has. 

"What do you wanna drink?" 

"Oh." Georgie looks up at the menu and suddenly feels a little overwhelmed. "Wait, we make earl grey lattes? Since when?" 

Richie twists his neck and leans back on his elbows to try and read the menu above the bar. "Dude," he says, dropping his head back to look at Georgie upside-down, raising an eyebrow. "For like ten or eleven years. Eds started making them in my fourth year, when we met Ben. 'S the only thing he'll drink."

"Fuck." Georgie shakes his head. "They're like chai lattes but with earl grey? Like with the juice stuff we've got?"

"Can it be juice if it's not fruity?" Richie asks, grabbing a cup off the top shelf easily, not really stretching for it. 

"I don't fucking know, man." Tucking his bag beneath the bar, he hops the bar and ducks under Richie's suddenly swinging arm. 

Richie blinks at him. "Why're you behind the bar?"

"I work here?" 

"Not today! Eds said I had the bar on my own today." Richie crosses his arms and then uncrosses and leans one hand against the espresso machine and then stops doing that because that machine is  _hot_ literally all the time. Georgie stares at him. 

"Are you...  _intimidated_ by me?" 

"What?" Richie squawks. "Of course not!"

"I'm like twenty years younger than you and at least six inches shorter than you, how is that even possible?" 

"You're just--" Richie's cheeks flush. "You're Bill's brother and I'm kind of dating Eddie? I think. I mean, I've been in love with him for like thirteen years, but that's whatever."

Georgie laughs, head back, leaning against the fridge. 

"Plus all the piercings and the tattoos and everything! You've got such a vibe I feel like I never wanna mess with you."

"Oh, my God, Richie," Georgie says, shaking his head and pulling down a set of mugs and moving to flick on the espresso machine. The clock on the register says 6:42, which means they'll be getting the Busy business people in ten minutes and the keen or regretful 8:00 kids in twenty. "I don't care that you're dating Eddie. Honestly, Bill's kind of fucked up and their relationship wasn't good for either or them." He pauses as the machine hisses and spits at him. As he swabs it with a cloth, he continues. "Besides, I'm thinking you and Eddie are gonna be married in the next year or so, so I might as well get used to you. And if you're working here, we're gonna be seeing a lot of each other." Georgie shrugs. "We might as well be friends."

Richie goes very still behind him. Georgie twists to look at him, and follows his gaze to the stairs, where Eddie is standing, yawning, hair sticking up, but fluffy and clean. All of his tattoos are on display, the sunflowers and the daisies and the bunches of roses blooming from the top of his foot all the way up his shin and calf, up his knee and thigh to under the hem of his grey shorts. His other leg is spotted with thin green vines and tiny white flowers, wound through with names - Valerie, Rosie, Bill, Richie, Bev, Ben, Stan, Mike - and then a daisy that doesn't quite match the others, with the name Georgie still sharp and fresh against his calf. 

Richie's eyes trail up his legs, and his smile is soft and small. 

Georgie was nine or ten the last time someone smiled at Eddie like that. He smiles to himself and turns back to the machine, hears Richie hop the counter, and Eddie's half-hearted protest and the soft thump of someone being pressed against the wall, the wet sound of tongues. 

"Go upstairs, you fucking horn-dogs, for fuck's sake!"

"Fuck you, Denbrough."

"You wish, Tozier." Georgie nods at Ronnie as they come in, a soft smile on their sharp cheeks. "Could you not fuck Eddie in the goddamn cafe?" 

The stairs creak and the doorknob squeaks at the top of the stairs. The door slams shut. 

Georgie rolls his eyes and goes to work. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> little bit that didn't fit in here but i thought it was cute so here! 
> 
> Nine months later, Georgie wins a bet. A hundred bucks from Bev, thanks to Richie and Eddie's shotgun wedding. 
> 
> Richie is wearing his work clothes - skinny jeans and black chucks, a White Stripes t-shirt and a knitted pink cardigan. Eddie's wearing his white overalls and a yellow sweater, grey chucks. Rosie is on her dad's back, carefully putting dandelions and daisies they found on their walk to City Hall in his hair. 
> 
> Yesterday, they came in and filled out paperwork, laughed at happy employees who witnessed the certificate for them. 
> 
> Today, it's the ceremony and it's tiny. Mike and Stan have their arms around each other, Ben and Bev are close by. Valerie is holding Millie on her hip, grinning widely at her dad and Richie. Ronnie has their arm wound around Georgie's shoulders, their respective pink and blue hair drawing the gaze of every official who comes into the room. The woman officiating the wedding is a student of Richie's and she grins big and tackles Eddie in a hug, saying something about 'Professor Tozier's handsome man that he always talks about! I can't believe you're real!' 
> 
> come bother me at gay-for-roxane on tumblr i love talking to people! talk to me about shit! it'll be fun!

**Author's Note:**

> it's been so long! fuck!  
> anyways, lemme know what you think. next chapter should be up in a bit.  
> come bother me at gay-for-roxane, if you wanna chat/freak out/whatever


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